


The Queen of Love and Beauty

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Genderswap tales [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Courtly Love, F/M, Female Jaime Lannister, Male Brienne of Tarth, Marriage of Convenience, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: When Ser Brien of Tarth won the Hand's Tourney, he crowned Lady Jaime Lannister Queen of Love and Beauty.





	The Queen of Love and Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> This story is pure self-indulgence. No research was done in the course of writing this; I made no attempt to marry up timelines. I vaguely remember that Robb Stark took Ashemark, but I didn't even try to reconcile it with canon. If you are a purist, please forgive me. Otherwise, please enjoy gender-swapped Jaime and Brienne! 
> 
> (A word of warning for Aerys' treatment of his wife (and a young Jaime) after a hard day of burning people alive. It's mentioned only in passing and not in any detail.)

**

**1.**

**

In later years, whenever the singers told the tale of the Kingslayer and her brave knight, they always began with the great Tourney of the Hand in the last days of King Robert’s reign.

On that field outside King’s Landing, with the banners flying and the trumpets ringing, the crowd roared and cheered as they watched the young unknown ser Brien of Tarth overcome many great knights, unhorsing Ser Barristan the Bold, the beautiful Knight of Flowers and the fearsome Hound alike. 

King Robert himself roared his congratulations when Ser Brien knelt before him, gave him a hearty slap on the back as he presented him with the champion’s purse.

But when it came time to crown a Queen of Love and Beauty, Ser Brien chose Lady Jaime Lannister. 

The crowd fell silent as he presented the garland to the Queen’s golden twin, clad in green silk with her unbound hair falling around her like sunlight. Lady Jaime, called the Kingslayer, accepted the garland of golden roses with a cool smile. 

Ser Brien was tall, broad-shouldered, straw-haired and freckled, his nose twice-broken and his features strangely mismatched.

He was no more than 18 years old.

Lady Jaime was two and thirty at least, and infamous. They said she had seduced Aerys Targaryen and murdered him as he slept. They said she had refused to marry afterwards and swore to murder any husband Lord Tywin forced on her in the same manner.

And yet Ser Brien looked upon her as though she was the incarnation of the Maiden herself. 

** 

**Interlude**

**

[“You know, if you play your cards right, you could have him,” Cersei said. 

It was very late. The fire had died down and they were curled up together in the queen’s bed, tired and replete. Jaime twined one of Cersei’s golden curls around her fingers, humming with absent pleasure. 

“What would I do with him?” Jaime asked. “I have no need of a cock.” She pressed closer, slipped one of her hands between Cersei’s thighs and curled her fingers deliberately. 

Cersei arched into her touch, but after a moment batted her hand away. “I don’t mean his cock, sweet sister. I mean a strong sword hand.”

Jaime sighed. “He’s no more than a boy.”

“And yet he was strong enough to knock the Hound from his horse.” Cersei turned to face her, her expression serious. “Ned Stark is asking questions, and the vultures are circling; you saw the way he looked at you – you might do well to bind him to your side.”

“I don’t play those sorts of games, sweet sister.” 

“Then you’re fool,” Cersei said.]

**

**2.**

**

The day after his extraordinary victory at the tourney, one of the Red Keep’s pages found Brien and summoned him to attend Lady Jaime Lannister in the gardens. 

He followed the boy through the corridors of the keep and into the formal, well-kept wilderness where the court ladies strolled and played. She was waiting for him in a marble folly overlooking Blackwater Bay, the pillars and domed roof twined with climbing roses. A wrought-iron table and two chairs were set out, but Lady Jaime was standing with her back to Brien, looking out over the water. 

She turned when the page announced him, dismissing the boy with a curt gesture, and then fixed her gaze on Brien. In his turn, he took the opportunity to look upon her. 

There were so many tales of the Queen’s sister. Murderess, they called her. Seductress. Whore. 

Brien’s Queen of Love and Beauty was a tall woman, slender, with the golden beauty of all the tales, but he did not think her cold and ruthless. Rather, she seemed fierce, restless – impatient, even. 

“What do you want, ser?” she asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. “Why choose me? You would have done better to crown my sister.”

Her presence was overwhelming. She wore a gold silk gown, with emeralds at her ears and woven into her golden hair. Closer to, he could see tiny lines at the corners of her green eyes. 

He could not tear his gaze away. 

“I think you are the more beautiful,” he answered – honest in this, as he was in everything he did. He knew no other way. 

She stared at him. “Do you think to wed a daughter of Casterly Rock?” she demanded. “I have refused better men than you, ser.”

“I know,” he said. “I have heard –” he cut himself off. “I don’t care about that. I don’t ask anything, my lady. They gave me a garland of roses and told me to choose, and I gave it to the most beautiful woman I saw.”

** 

**3.**

**

Though Lord Selwyn of Tarth was a sworn bannerman to Renly Baratheon, when war broke out Brien went not to Highgarden but into the Westerlands, where Lady Jaime had fled after she set Lannister guardsmen on Ned Stark, demanding the return of her brother. 

Rumour put her at Ashemark, and so that was where Brien went, like iron filings drawn to a lodestone.

He arrived at Ashemark scant hours before the Young Wolf and his army of Northmen. The castle was frantically preparing for an attack, knights and men at arms bustling about as their captains bawled orders; in all the commotion, he almost slipped through unchallenged, before a sharp-eyed sentry caught sight of him and he was quickly surrounded by Westermen. 

It took him precious time to convince them that he was no threat, that he only wanted to speak to the Lady Jaime. Even after that, they would not allow him into the castle proper; they sent a message instead and kept him under guard in the gatehouse.

She did not come for two hours. By that time, the Young Wolf’s army could be seen from the battlements and the castle’s preparations had reached fever pitch. When she did come, he could see that she was preoccupied, in no mood for courtesy or games of chivalry – 

“You again,” she said impatiently. “What do you want?”

It had been long months since he last saw her. He had thought, perhaps, that he had idealized her, that he might find her diminished with time and distance – but she was every bit as overwhelming as he remembered. 

He stared at her for a long moment, lost, before he recalled himself.

“Only to serve you,” he said. “Nothing more.” 

Her eyes were fierce green, measuring, questioning. “To serve me,” she repeated. “Not my father, or my sister, or even my nephew the king. Just me.”

“Only you, my lady,” he confirmed. 

She seemed to come to some sort of decision. “One day,” she said, “you may come to regret this moment, Ser Brien. But for now – come with me.”

_Anywhere,_ he thought. 

_Anything._

**

They fled into the night, heading south and west towards Casterly Rock. 

She rode long and hard without a word of complaint. Her spine seemed made of pure steel, her head held high and proud; if she was cold or exhausted she didn’t show it, but pressed on undaunted. 

She was dressed in a sturdy grey wool dress, her golden hair covered by a shawl. When he first saw her dressed in silk and velvet she had seemed a golden lady out of song; now, she was real, a flesh and blood woman with a smudge of dirt on her cheek. 

When they finally called a halt, Brien made camp, gathered wood for the fire and snagged a fat rabbit. He skinned it with swift, practiced ease and set it on a spit to cook, conscious all the while of Lady Jaime’s eyes on him. 

“You are a very useful companion, ser,” Lady Jaime said. “If you’re not careful, I might just keep you.”

When they put their bedrolls side by side and slept with back pressed to back, Brien could smell the elusive ghost of Lady Jaime’s perfume, the scent of lavender and herbs caught in her golden hair.

**

The Northmen overtook them on the second night. 

The moon was high, shadows flying as five riders descended on them, lit only by smoking torches; a rough voice rang out, ordering them to halt and surrender. 

Brien drew his sword and spurred his horse straight into them, parrying and slashing and striking; he fought so fiercely he cut three of them down before they were fully prepared. His blood sang, and his muscles burned, and he could taste steel and copper on his tongue as he hacked and slashed and bludgeoned them; by the time he was done there were no more men to oppose him, and he was grinning fiercely, his white teeth stained with blood. 

He turned to see Lady Jaime staring at him, her expression unreadable. 

** 

Later, after the heady rush of blood finally faded, he was left feeling sick and shaken and empty. He remembered the impact of his blade against flesh and leather. He remembered their screams and the shrieking of their fallen horses. He remembered the smell of blood and shit and churned up mud. 

He had to stop his horse and stagger into the bushes, bracing his hand against a tree as he bent over and retched helplessly, coughing as he cast up the contents of his stomach.

Lady Jaime nudged his shoulder and handed him a wineskin. Grateful, he took it and drank deeply, trying to clear the foul taste from his mouth. 

“Was that your first time in true combat?” she asked. 

He nodded, wordless. Still shaking, he wiped his mouth and spat, and finally turned back to her – would she think less of him for his reaction? 

“The first time I stabbed Aerys I struck bone,” she said. Her face was turned away, her attention fixed on the stars bright and uncaring in the night sky. “I had to try again and again before I found muscle and flesh – he was shouting and screaming, and there was blood everywhere. My hands were so slippery, and it smelt like – like new pennies.”

She drew in her breath. “In the end I had to grasp his hair and drag his head back before I could slit his throat. He was still strong, even then. Still thrashing and screaming. None of the tales ever speak of that.”

** 

Five days after fleeing Ashemark, they reached Casterly Rock. 

**

**Interlude**

**

[“So that is your famous Ser Brien,” Aunt Genna said. “Even here in the Westerlands we heard how he chose you as Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“He’s a boy,” Jaime said, feeling as though she’d had this conversation before. 

“A boy who came all the way from Tarth to serve you. A boy who killed five men in your service and brought you safely away from the Young Wolf’s armies.”

Jaime refused to be drawn. “What do you want, aunt?”

“Your father should have married you off long since.” Aunt Genna clicked her tongue. “He’s indulged you for this long because your reputation was ruined, and because Cersei managed to snare the greatest prize of all, but now that we’re at war he’ll need to secure new alliances –”

“No!” Jaime snapped, but Aunt Genna continued undaunted. 

“– and what better way than through marriage. Cersei as well, now that she’s a widow. You’re both still young and beautiful, still young enough to bear children.” Aunt Genna gave her a pointed look. “And once you’re both married and far from each other, it will put an end to Stannis’ vile rumours of incest and adultery.”

Jaime thought of Ser Brien, her young, adoring sworn sword. She thought of his strength, of his quiet, solid competence. When he squared his shoulders and braced himself, it felt as though nothing could sway him from his course.

She thought of what she could do, with all that strength at her command.]

**

**4.**

**

Lord Tywin had gone with his armies to the Riverlands, leaving his sister Lady Genna in charge at the Rock. 

Though they had finally reached safety, Lady Jaime appeared more restless than ever, pacing the battlements and staring into the distance. More often than not, Brien accompanied her on these walks, trailing like a silent shadow behind her; the Lannister men-at-arms had taken to calling him the Kingslayer’s Sword. 

It was not such a bad name, he thought. 

Finally, one day Lady Jaime summoned him to attend her in her solar. Lady Genna was with her, and Lady Dorna, Lord Kevan Lannister’s wife. 

“Ser Brien,” Lady Jaime said, “I want you to take command of the Lannister forces and drive the Young Wolf out of the West.”

**

(“You are a knight,” she had said, after he had killed five men to save her. “Knights use their swords to work their lord’s will on the world, my father says. Will you use your sword in my service, Ser Brien? Will you work my will on the world?”)

** 

And so Brien found himself at the head of a Lannister army.

He had never before led anything larger than a scouting troop; still, his Lady commanded it, and so he was determined to succeed.

Defend the borders, she had said, and so he set men to defend them. Take back the castles, she had said, and so he took the castles back. 

Drive out the Young Wolf, she had said, a seemingly impossible task – and yet he set himself to carry out her will.

He had a well-disciplined, well-equipped army of loyal men behind him. He had a horse and a suit of armour and a good sword. He had his wits, and his will, and the memory of her. 

Every time he sent word back to her of his success, he remembered her cool expression, searching and challenging – he remembered her courage, and her determination, and the way she had asked him to work her will on the world. 

**

(“Go on,” she had said one night. “Ask.” 

“Why?” he had asked. “Why did you kill Aerys? Your father was at the gates, Ned Stark was bearing down on the city – surely you could have hidden in your chambers and simply waited. Did you want revenge that badly?”

She had stared at him, her eyes burning green in the firelight. There were tales of what Aerys had done to Lady Jaime, a fifteen year old hostage in King’s Landing. The Mad King had found – pleasure – in burning people alive. 

“Those brave, honourable white knights,” she had said. “They stood by and watched as he burned men alive, and they did nothing. They stood by and watched as he raped and beat his wife – yes, and me – and they did nothing. And when he gave the order to burn King’s Landing to the ground, to leave Robert king of nothing but ashes, still they would have stood by and watched. I begged and I pleaded with them to stop him, but they stood frozen and would not act – 

And so I took it upon myself.”)

**

Long, bloody months of war it took, but in the end Brien and his men finally drove the Young Wolf out. They took back Ashemark, and the Crag, and the Golden Tooth, and all the lesser castles and keeps that had fallen to Robb Stark’s brilliant campaign. 

And Brien returned to Casterly Rock in triumph, at the head of a victorious army. 

Lady Jaime met him at the gates, a golden lioness in a gown of green silk, and when he knelt before her she raised him with tender hands and kissed him on the brow, her long, unbound hair falling around him, smelling of lavender and herbs. 

“You are a true champion and the bravest and most gallant of knights, Ser Brien,” she announced, before the cheering army and all the inhabitants of Casterly Rock. “What would you ask as a reward for your courage, your bravery, and your loyal service?”

He stared at her, his eyes wide, blue and utterly guileless, ensnared and enchanted as always. “My lady,” he finally replied. “I ask nothing but to serve and love you for the rest of my days.”

** 

**Interlude**

**

[“Your father will never allow it,” Aunt Genna warned her.

“And yet he has no choice,” Jaime replied. “Ser Brien is a proven commander, the hero of the Westerlands. The smallfolk are already singing tales of our love.”

“If you’re not careful, they’ll sing tales of his tragic, untimely death – there are any number of ways a wife can be made a widow.” 

Jaime frowned. The thought was surprisingly upsetting. 

“Not if I stay at Casterly Rock,” she mused. “If I can make the Westerlands into a fortress, and take the loyalty of the Rock for my own – if any man objects, I’ll simply send them to join Father.”

Aunt Genna sighed. “You don’t think he’ll object to you taking the Westerlands?”

Jaime only laughed. “Why should he? He has King’s Landing. Let him rule through Joffrey. I will rule through Ser Brien.”]

** 

**5.**

**

And so Ser Brien of Tarth was wed to Lady Jaime Lannister, the lady whom he had crowned Queen of Love and Beauty so long ago, before the world had descended into war. 

When he wrapped his blue-and-azure cloak around her shoulders, enfolding her in his protection, the smallfolk cheered. The soldiers and knights banged their cups and roared with approval, for Ser Brien was well-loved as a commander. The servants and retainers of Casterly Rock looked on indulgently, for they had always loved Lady Jaime, and she had won their hearts with her courage and her loyalty and her beauty. 

The great lords of the Westerlands, those who were not with Lord Tywin in King’s Landing or with the Lannister armies in the Riverlands, held their tongue, for Casterly Rock still fielded more men than any of them combined. 

In King’s Landing, if Queen Cersei was piqued, she did not show it. Lord Tyrion was hugely amused. Lord Tywin evinced no reaction, but Tyrion thought their father might be just a little pleased – Jaime had always been his favourite, and he had always wanted the Rock to go to her sons. 

** 

After the feast, after the raucous bedding ceremony, Brien found himself alone with his lady – his bride – in their bedchamber. 

She was wearing a fine linen shift, her hair unbound and falling to her hips, and she was watching him with that cool, challenging stare. 

“Well?” she asked. “Are you not eager to claim your reward, ser?”

The Queen of Love and Beauty, he thought. He remembered her burning green eyes as she spoke of Aerys; the iron strength of her will. 

“Only if you are willing to grant it, my lady,” he said. 

She smiled at him, and slipped her shift from her shoulders. 

“Come with me,” she said, grasping him by the hand and leading him to the bed. She put his hand on her breast, and pressed close against him, kissing him, her mouth cool and sweet and tasting of wine. 

“Oh,” he breathed, sliding his arm around her waist, so slim and supple, feeling the warmth of her pressed against him, the scent of her dizzying. 

“Oh,” he said again when she took his hand and put it between her legs, showing him how to touch her. 

When she coaxed him down to the bed and pulled him on top of her, when she guided him inside her and taught him the slow, steady rhythm of it, he said nothing at all, only breathing hoarsely, lost in her warmth and her beauty and the flesh and blood reality of her – a woman, he thought, his wife, strong and fierce and so soft under his rough, calloused hands. 

Afterwards, when they were curled up together, he lay his head between her breasts and felt her hand stroking his hair, wrapping the straw-like locks around her fingers and humming absently. 

“My lady,” he breathed reverently, drawing her hand up and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“Jaime,” she said. “My name is Jaime.”


End file.
